June 15, 1605 London, England
An empty stall is not the most dignified place to die.
It smells of manure and horse piss, warm dust and the faint, grassy sweetness of hay.
The straw bedding pokes her through her dress and prickles against her skin, but beggars can’t be choosers.
It is warmer than an alley and quieter than the docks, and if the elixir proves to be nothing more than river water, it is the softest bed Beatrix will find tonight, her money spent on a fool’s hope.
She settles herself in the straw, flattening it down as best she can without disturbing the neighboring horses.
Perhaps they think she is a giant bird making her nest, because they pay her no mind.
She pulls her handkerchief from her pocket and carefully unwraps her treasure.
The depth of the dark green glass is lost in the barely lit stable, the miniature bottle shining black in her hand.
Maybe she should have asked the man for particulars. He said his potion would save her mortal soul. But can her soul be mortal when her body isn’t? If it was mortal, it must have left her long ago. Maybe she has no soul left to save.
She pulls out the stopper and inhales the vaguely herbal scent. If the man’s elixir works, will she live out the rest of her days, never knowing which one will be her last? Or will it kill her right here, right now, in this stinking stable?
There’s only one way to find out.
Beatrix lifts the bottle to her mouth. Hesitates with the smooth rim of the glass pressed against her lips.
Did the water really come from the Wye?
Did he visit the abbey at Tintern?
Does Lancaut still exist?
She tips the bitter liquid into her mouth, swallows it down in a single gulp, and waits to feel something. Maybe to feel nothing.
She lets her head fall back against the planked wall with a hollow thud. She didn’t trust the man, didn’t believe a word he spoke. She still gave him far too much money, still drank his potion.
She only has hope to blame for that.
For everything.